


A Real Fight

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5578675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old wounds reopen… and how she handles it is not unattractive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Real Fight

**Author's Note:**

> I would actually love to see Bridget do this. Not that I condone violence.

When he was working, it was difficult for anything to pull Mark Darcy off task; at least, that was the way things used to be before the upheaval of his life by the spark it had always needed. When the phone rang that evening, his hand shot out to pick it up, where once, he would have just let it ring.

After all, it might have been _her_. And he was right.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Still at work," he said. "I'm sorry." He hated the thought of not seeing her that evening, but he had to be realistic. "Maybe we should plan for tomorrow, instead. I don't want to keep you up too late on a work night."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he should have phrased it a different way. "Mark," she said in a low voice that bore a strong resemblance to a purr, "you can keep me up as late as you like, any night of the week. No matter how late you finish, I'll be waiting, wine in hand, and wearing only the red nightie you like best."

He cleared his throat. "I'll be done very soon, then," he managed, "and I'll be right over. I promise."

"All right," she said. "Bye."

He put down the phone, staring at the brief on which he had been working. He had intended to finish it by mid-morning in time to hand it off to Jeremy, but his ability to focus—legendary amongst the legal community—had vanished in the wake of her seductive phone call. Try as he might, he could not get anything useful down. He took a deep breath. It was Thursday night; Jeremy didn't really need it until Monday first thing, anyway.

Resigned to the inevitable, he packed up his papers into his attaché, then headed out of the office. The distance between his office and her flat was not that great, but London traffic was never good, and especially not so close to the weekend, so it took him a lot longer than it should have. It took even longer because he stopped for chocolates, knowing that they would make her exceedingly pleased, even if she complained at how negatively it would affect her calorie count. Once he actually had her building in his sights, he felt calmer. Better. Happier.

He was dismayed, though not surprised, to find that her building door was ajar, which allowed him to enter without her buzzing him in. After carefully closing the door behind himself, he scaled the stairs and up to her flat. He was far more concerned to find her flat door was also ajar.

He stepped cautiously inside and up the stairs to find her seated on the couch. She was not dressed in her nightie, but in a short skirt and a light jumper; she did not have any wine there. She had her face in her hands, the quiet sounds of sobbing unmistakeable.

His concern was immediate and kicked in instantly. He set down the chocolates and went closer to her. "Bridget," he said. She jumped at the sound of his voice. 

"Oh, Mark, I'm so sorry," she said.

"Are you all right?" he asked, then sat beside her. "What's happened?"

She looked up and into his eyes. Reluctantly, she nodded. "I'm fine," she said quietly, then glanced down again. Her voice trembled as she spoke once more, and she wrung her hands almost nervously. "As to what happened… I can't not tell you. Daniel Cleaver was here."

Mark felt as if the bottom of his stomach had fallen out. "Cleaver," he said. He felt his anger rising, especially given her state, and what he knew of his former friend. "Did he… try to… assault you?"

Her head snapped up. "Assault me?" she asked.

"Sexually," he explained.

She thought a moment, then shook her head. "I did a terrible thing," she said. "I'm so sorry, but it was just… the impulse of the moment. I couldn't help myself."

Now his head began to spin. What terrible thing could she have done? Betrayed him with Cleaver? "Why did he come here," he said, rather than ask. "Did you ask him here?"

"No," she said. "He just showed up out of the blue. Someone must have left the building door open, and when he knocked at the door, I… thought it was you."

He imagined the scene, Bridget smiling and welcoming…. He shook his head as if to shake the thought from his mind. "Then what."

A tear ran down her cheek, which she wiped away. "I told him that he had better go because you would be here soon," she said. "But… he came in, anyway."

"Oh, Bridget," Mark said sadly.

"I could tell he'd had a drink or two," she said. "Telling me how sorry he was that he'd ever let me go. I… felt bad for him."

Mark looked down. Here it came; she was going to chuck him. He should have guessed it was too good to be true—or rather, that she was too good for him. He didn't know if he should take her in his arms and beg her not to chuck him, or to get up and walk away before she could hurt him that way. Instead, she began to sob again, clearly distraught. He felt he had no choice but to offer an embrace.

"Bridget," he said softly. "Whatever happened next, you can tell me."

She tightened her hold around him for a moment. "I told him again that he had to go," she said. "That you'd be by any moment. Then… he kissed me."

He didn't say anything; he didn't know what to say. He stroked her hair, waiting for the bomb to drop.

"I'm sorry," she said. He braced himself. "I shouldn't have done it. But he…" She trailed off, then burst out with, "I didn't _mean_ to break his nose!"

Mark froze. "What?"

"I just reacted when he kissed me," she said. "I pushed him back then… bam." She held up her hand, the one she'd been massaging in what he had thought to be a nervous manner; only then did he notice the reddened and abraded knuckles.

"You… _punched_ him?" he asked, thoroughly astonished.

"Yes," she said, drawing back to look at him. "He looked as stunned as you do. Only he had blood coming out." She gestured under her nostrils. "He cried that I broke his nose and he ran out before I could even offer an ice pack or anything." He stared at her. Then he smiled. Then he chuckled. And then he began to laugh.

She pouted. "It's _not_ funny," she said. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, reaching for her injured hand, and she allowed him to take it. He stroked the abraded skin tenderly; he didn't think it looked bad enough to warrant a visit to A&E. "Maybe we should get some dressing on it."

"Sod the dressing," she said. "Mark Darcy, why did you laugh?"

"I'm sorry," he said again ruefully. "It's just when you said Cleaver had been here… it opened an old wound for me. I thought—"

"You thought I'd _shagged_ him?" she interrupted.

He opened his mouth to protest, but closed it, and hesitantly nodded. "I thought you were going to chuck me for him."

"Ugh. And after that phone call where I told you that you could keep me up late any time you like?" she asked.

He met her gaze and didn't look away. "I know, I know. It wasn't rational," he said. He brought her injured knuckles up to kiss them tenderly. "I was just so relieved that lightning hadn't managed to strike twice."

Her expression softened. "I can't decide if I want to hug you," she said, "or kick you in the… well. Use your imagination."

He smiled again. "Fair enough," he said. "I'm sorry it had to come to actual blows, but perhaps this—"

"Oh my God," she blurted out, "you don't think he'll press charges, do you?"

"If he does, you'll be well represented," he said. "More likely, though—as I was saying—this will send a very unambiguous message to him that it's over between you."

"I've decided which," she said, then she moved closer to him, placed her uninjured hand against the back of his neck, then drew him into a kiss that quickly deepened. But then she broke away. "Oh, I'm not in the nightie," she said. "And I never got to opening the wine…"

"Don't care," he murmured, leaning forward again. "I never realised before this moment how utterly attractive a woman standing up for herself is."

The smile was immediate and gorgeous. "Oh," she said.

He ran his thumb over her cheek, then drew her to him again to resume the kiss. What he'd said was true: he always had found her forthrightness attractive, but realising she'd punched Daniel to defend herself had turned him on more than he wanted to admit out loud. She, however, guessed, simply by the escalation in the passion in his kiss. 

Without breaking the kiss she moved to straddle his lap; she ran her hand down his shirt, her nails skipping on the buttons as she did, until she got to his waist. She made a sound in her throat as she tugged down on the fly, discovering exactly how happy he was to see her. 

He ran his hands up her thighs and under the hem of her short skirt; once again he was glad for her penchant for such skirts. He then teased the elastic on her pants. 

"Fuck," she said, halting her progress with his trousers.

"What?" Mark managed.

"I should have just taken those off first."

He chuckled. "We can't work around—?"

"Not exactly thongs. Hold on."

She stood, shimmied out of the slimming pants that he also knew she liked wearing for the way they flattered her figure (not that he thought it needed flattering), then dropped back into her place on his lap. "Where were we," she said breathily.

"Right… there…" he said, running a hand up her thighs again, past where the elastic had been. As she dove on him for a kiss again, he found purchase between her legs. She moaned into his mouth. With the other hand, he finished what she had begun with his trousers, pushing aside his boxers; she leaned forward, pressing the hardness against her abdomen, rocking up and down in time with his fingers.

_Jesus, I'm going to come_ , he thought, or maybe he said it, because she shifted herself up in order to descend upon him. He groaned as they connected, as she rode up and down in time with his upward thrusts. He grasped her backside, pressing his fingers hard into her.

It didn't take long, a few thrusts more, before he _did_ come, pulling her close to him as she continued moving towards her own release. She broke the kiss. "So close," she panted. "Touch me, Mark."

He didn't need asking twice. He pushed his hand between their bodies, driving his finger hard into the spot she had so carefully taught him about despite his initial embarrassment, then stroking in time with her movement. The timbre of her voice changed; he had hit the target. Within seconds he could feel her climax. She cried out in pleasure as she shuddered, but he didn't stop yet; she had also taught him that he should feel free to continue until she indicated he should stop with a firm hand on his wrist.

When she did so, he drew his fingers away, then wrapped his arms around her, leaning back into the sofa, pulling her down with him, and kissing her deeply again before she rested her cheek against his collarbone.

He exhaled, then pressed a kiss into her hair just at her temple. He reached over and drew a nearby blanket over them to hold in the quickly dissipating heat, and rested together, breathing in and out almost in unison.

"For what it's worth," Mark murmured after many moments, "I brought something for you."

"Oh?" she asked, rearing her head back to look at him. "What?"

He smiled, loving the sleepy, satiated expression on her face. 

"I mean, besides the amazing shag," she added.

"Chocolates," he said, "though I don't suppose that can hold a candle."

"Depends on the chocolates." She waggled her brows.

"Belgian."

"Ooh," she said, then gently pushed herself away with a grin in order to get to her feet. She tossed the blanket back over him; his position and the disarray of his clothing was not exactly dignified. "Where?" she asked, looking around. "Oh. I see them. _Ding-dong_."

She padded over to where the box of chocolates sat and, as she returned to the sofa, she slipped a nail under the edge of the cellophane to tear it off, then under the edge of the box to pull up the lid. She sat down beside him again, plucked up a chocolate, and popped it into her mouth. "Oh, the very best," she said. "The very, very best."

"You only like me for the chocolates I bring," Mark joked, sitting up straight.

"Yes, of _course_ that's it," she said, then stuck her tongue out playfully. "Do you want one?" She held up the box for him. He reached and took one.

"No, thank you," he said, then held it up for her to take from his fingers. She smiled, leaned forward as if to take it in her teeth, but at the last moment he drew it back. He held it steady, so she went for it again, but he drew it back once more. The third time she tried, she quickly climbed up into his lap in order to get it, accidentally grazing her teeth against his fingers. "Hm," Mark said. "Might want to claim my portion after all."

"Mm?" she asked, swallowed, then spoke again a bit more clearly. "Take one from the box, then?"

"Not from there," he said, then reached up and pressed his mouth over hers; the taste of chocolate lingered in her mouth, all the sweeter for being from her kiss. Chocolate was, in all honesty, not his favourite flavour, but he particularly enjoyed it like this.

She pulled away. "I don't mind sharing at all," she said with an impish smile, bringing her fingers up to smooth down his mussed hair. "Oh, did you want some dinner?" she asked. "You must be hungry."

"I'm fine," he said. "I had some chocolate."

She pursed her lips playfully. "I have something warming in the oven," she said. "I made it for us, but I didn't know how late you would be…"

He sniffed deeply. "I was going to ask what that smell was," he said. 

She sniffed, too. "Oh no." she said, then got to her feet again and ran to the kitchen. "Oh _no_ ," she said again, with more despair in her tone.

He knew why: he could tell whatever had been in the oven had burnt. He sat up, righting his trousers, setting the blanket aside, and then stood up.

She returned, looking sepulchral. "I forgot to turn down the heat to warming temperature," she said. "It's… black."

He chuckled. "It's all right," he said.

"I'm rubbish in the kitchen."

He took her into his arms. "You can't be perfect all the time and in every room," he said.

She turned and placed a kiss against his neck, chuckling softly to herself. "One out of three isn't all that great."

"What's that?"

"The ridiculous old saying about a woman needing to be a maid in the living room, a cook in the kitchen, and a whore in the bedroom," she said teasingly. "I've got that last one down."

He felt himself turn crimson from the tip of his toes to the top of his head. "You shouldn't say that about yourself," he said quietly.

She pulled back to examine him. "Oh my God, you're beet red!" she said, placing the palm of her hand against his hot face. "I was just joking… not that I think sexual liberation is anything to be ashamed of. Nothing wrong, I think, with enjoying it, despite what old men in long robes might say. And I didn't sense you had any complaints, there."

He felt a smile creep across his lips, turned his eyes down. "That, I did not," he said. He turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand.

"I could make you a toasted cheese sandwich," she said quietly. He slipped his arm around her waist again, pulled her up against him. How silly he'd been. How unfounded his fears had been.

"Could order something in, instead," he said. 

"That'll take so long," she said.

"Tell you what," he said. "I'll whip up something for myself to eat in your kitchen, if you'll do me a favour."

"Oh?"

He slipped his hand down over her arse, then up again, grasping it gently. "Go and find that nightie for me."

She drew back to look at him; a slow, impish smile found her face. "You've got a deal."

_The end._


End file.
